where the writers are
The Writer's Call
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Your words must wash my floor for love,
I heard it all declare. I kissed my pen, swore this decree to air.
Then set to work on bended knee, a childlike creep through house and street,
to clean through what’s encrusted there.

 

It’s done for you, kind reader, dear,
who walks my words across the page, who seeks clear ground in marks I make:
the glisten in your gleaning eye, that shines with mine, us both to see
how in such brightening, all can gleam.